Line of Control

FORTY-THREE

Sharab had lost all sense of time. She knew that they had been walking for hours but she had no idea how many. The woman's thighs burned from the struggle of the upward and then downward trek, and her feet were blistered front and back. Every step generated hot, abrasive pain. Sharab did not know how much longer she could continue. Certainly getting down to where she believed the Indian army was situated would be virtually impossible. She would have to find some way of slowing the enemy down from up here.

The men behind her were not faring any better. They had discarded their flashlights and heavier shoulder-mounted weapons. They had also left behind all but a few of the explosives they planned to use to attract the attention of the Indian soldiers. They'd eaten the food so they would not have to carry it. The water had frozen in their canteens and they had left those behind as well. When they were thirsty they simply broke off the icicles they found in small hollows. All they carried were a rifle with a pocketful of shells as well as a handgun apiece and two extra clips. If there were an army coming toward them, Sharab knew she would not be able to overcome them. All she could hope to do now was draw them off and delay them long enough to give the American, Nanda, and the others a chance to get to Pakistan.

Surviving was also increasingly unlikely. If the Indians did not kill them the elements would.

Sharab even had some question now whether they would even find this elusive Indian army. They had heard some kind of artillery fire earlier. She wondered if the elite American unit had landed and engaged the enemy. She hoped not. The last thing she wanted was to send the Indians back to the line of control. That would only cause the military to bring in reinforcements. On the other hand, if any of the Americans had managed to land, that was good. They could certainly use the help fighting the Indians.

Unfortunately, Sharab could not find out what had happened. The radio she had used to communicate with Washington had become such a burden that she had left it behind.

Particles of wind-blown ice coated her wool hood and clung there. The cold had already numbed her scalp and frozen her sweat-soaked hair. The weight of the hood was such that it kept her head bent forward. That was good. It protected her eyes and cheeks from the sting of the ice pellets.

Sharab was feeling her way along the cliff and also using it for support. Ali was behind her, holding the hem of her parka. Every now and then she felt a tug as he halted or stumbled. Hassan was behind Ali. Sharab knew he was still there because she could hear him praying.

As the ledge widened, Sharab heard another sound. At first it sounded like a sudden, sharp quickening of the wind. But then she heard it again, louder. It was not the wind. Someone was shouting.

Sharab stopped and raised her eyes. She shielded them with her hand and peered ahead.

The young woman saw a cottage-sized boulder with something large moving behind the right side. Sharab could not make out what it was. She replayed the howl in her mind. Asian black bears and deer did not live this high. Perhaps it was a wild pig or goat.

It could also be a man.

It howled again. Sharab pulled off her hood and turned her right ear toward the boulder. She also removed her glove, tucked it in her left pocket, and drew the handgun from her right pocket.

"Who are you?" the figure shouted.

Sharab backed away. "Who wants to know?" she shouted back. The woman was surprised at the effort it took to yell. It actually caused her heart to race. Her voice sounded flat in the close, cold air.

"We are with the man who joined you before," the other man said. "Where is he?"

"Which man?" Sharab asked. "There were two." The man was speaking in English with an American-sounding accent. That was encouraging.

"We only know about one of them," the speaker said.

"What was his name?"

The man hesitated. Obviously, someone was going to have to make the first move to prove who they were. It was not going to be Sharab.

"Friday," the man said.

Sharab stepped forward again very tentatively. "He is not with us!"

"What happened to him?"

"He left," she replied. "Let's talk face-to-face."

"Come closer with your hands raised," the American said.

The speaker did not step from behind the boulder. It was the woman's turn to trust him.

Sharab protected her eyes again and tried to look past the boulder. She saw a second, smaller boulder off to the right but no sign of any other men. There could not be that many soldiers behind the two rocks. But the two boulders would provide good cover for a crossfire.

Sharab told Hassan and Ali to stay where they were. They nodded. Both men had drawn their weapons and were huddled close to the rock. Ali had moved out slightly to provide her some backup.

"If anything happens to me, fight your way out of this," she added. "You must keep the Indian army occupied."

The men nodded again.

The speaker was a few hundred yards away. Sharab did not put her gun away. She raised her hands shoulder-high and began moving toward the nearest boulder. It was difficult to see because of the blowing ice and she had to turn her face toward the side. Her scarf had fallen away and was whipping behind her. The ice particles lashed her flesh. Her cheek felt as if it were on fire. Sharab finally had to lower her left arm to protect it. There was no mountainside to lean against so her sore feet were taking all of her weight. She shambled from side to side to keep from putting all of her weight straight down. At least the terrain was level. That made it easier on her leg muscles.

Her eyes tearing from wind and pain, Sharab staggered the last few yards to the boulder. She fell against it and her knees just shivered and unlocked. She began to slide down the side. Strong, gloved hands reached around and helped to hold her up. She was still holding the gun. But even if Sharab had wanted to defend herself, her finger was too cold to pull the trigger.

A man in white winter gear pulled her behind the boulder. He sat her down and used his body to protect her from the wind. He bent close to her ear.

"Are you the leader?" he asked.

"First tell me who you are," Sharab said. She was barely able to say the words. Her lips were trembling.

"I am Colonel August of the U.S. Striker team," he said.

"I am the leader of these FKM fighters," Sharab replied weakly. She squinted across the dark plateau. She saw another man crouched there.

"That's Mr. Musicant, my medic," August said. "If any of your people need attention, I'll send him over."

"I think we're all right, except for the cold," the woman said. "Fingers, feet, mouth."

The man leaned nearer. He exhaled hotly on her lips. It felt good. He did it again.

"How many men have you?" Sharab asked.

"Three," he replied.

She fired him a look. "Just three?"

He nodded.

"The sounds we heard—?" she asked.

"Indian ground fire," he said. "It took out most of my team. Where is Mr. Friday?"

"We split the group," Sharab told him. "He is with the other half. They went in another direction."

"Over the glacier?" the colonel asked.

Sharab nodded.

"Is that how they're getting back to Pakistan?" August pressed.

The woman did not answer immediately. She looked up into his face. He was wearing goggles and she could not see his eyes. His mouth was straight, unemotional. His skin was pale but rough. He was definitely an American and he had seen some hardship.

"What will you do with the information?" she asked him.

"The third survivor of our drop landed in the valley," August replied. "He'll try and link up with your teammates."

"I see," she said. "Yes. The others are going to try and stay on the glacier until they are home."

"Do you have any way of contacting them?" August asked.

She shook her head.

"And what were you trying to do?" he asked. "Draw the Indian soldiers away from the other group, toward the northwest?"

"Yes," Sharab said. "We're carrying explosives. We thought we could attract their attention, maybe cause some rock slides."

"That won't be necessary," August informed her. "The Indian force is heading toward us. It'll be pretty tough for them to get up here so we'll be able to keep them busy while they bring in choppers from the LOC." August reached for his radio. "Do you and your men need food or water?"

"Food would be nice," she admitted.

August left the radio in his belt. He opened a vest pocket and removed several sticks of jerky. "Give some to your teammates and ask them to join us," he said as he handed her the flat, wrapped servings. "We should set up a defensive perimeter on this plateau. The Indians saw us come down here. I'm pretty sure that if we wait they'll come to us. That will give us a chance to rest, especially if they wait until morning to come after us."

"All right," Sharab said.

She started to stand. August helped her up. As he did, she looked up at him. "I'm sorry about your people."

"Thank you," he replied.

"But be consoled," she said. "Their death in the service of our people will earn them a place in Paradise. 'The steadfast who do good works, forgiveness and a rich reward await them,' " Sharab assured him.

The American smiled tightly. He left the woman supporting herself against the rock while he retrieved his radio.

Sharab winced as she put weight back on her swollen feet. She began hobbling back toward the ledge. But at least now she knew one thing that she did not know a few minutes ago.

The pain would end very soon.